The Devil's Voice
by Pearcem
Summary: Clary Morgenstern is learning the hard way that bargains with the devil can be as sneaky and underhanded as wishes with genies. Left unfeeling and emotionless since the age of eleven, Clary is experiencing things anew. The new kid will provoke her. Her best friend will test her. Her step-brother will protect her in his own twisted way. What fresh hell is this?
1. Sold My Soul

**I want to say thank you to iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica, an amazing writer, and an amazing beta, without whom, these chapters would be riddled with grammatical errors and occasionally strange wording. :)**

* * *

The first dream I had of him was the night I turned eleven. My parents had decided on separation that day, and I had been so sad, so angry that two people who I thought were supposed to be happy weren't. That night, I dreamt up a man like I had never seen. His cheeks were sort of hollow, cheekbones prominent. Black, feathery wings sprouted from his back like it was natural. They contrasted heavily against his snow-white hair combed back and out of his face. His eyes were bright emerald, like my own. And the scene, it kept changing. Despite my vision being a little fuzzy around the edges, I could see the flames flickering around us one minute, the next I could see the frozen- over water we stood on, slowly cracking under our combined weight. Did I mention the fact that I could feel the flames, licking at my pale, freckly skin, and when the scene changed, feel the cold biting at it, the ice seemingly embedding itself into my flesh as I slowly froze until the scene returned to the extreme heat and flames that licked at my pale, un-marked skin, as though I was an ice cream cone, and it the hungry child.

"I can make all your problems go away," he said. His voice was smooth, almost melodic — but not in a good way. He could convince anyone of anything, I was sure of it. Then again, I had been only eleven.

"How?" I had asked, in some state or another of awe. A handsome stranger, telling me he could take away my problems? That was a dream all on its own. Of course, the changing scene and his black wings hadn't factored into my decision to ultimately say yes, nor did the mischievous glint in his green eyes that I hadn't noticed until after the deed was done.

"You're how old, eleven?" He asked, as I nodded vigorously. "You should know what your soul is, right?" Once again, I nodded. "Well, if you say 'yes' I'll take that, and it'll be done. All your problems will be gone, I promise." Stupidly thinking the stranger had only my best intentions at heart, I agreed.

At that point in my life, I hadn't realized what a precious thing life was, nor did I realize what your soul was and what it did. It is not only the thing that allows you to feel everything you do, but it is your essence, you essential life force. And, well, walking around without one isn't much fun. Of course, no one told me this.

After agreeing to this stranger's condition, he kissed me on the temple; his lips were cold against my forehead. It was like shivers were rolling backwards up my shoulder blades. My immediate feeling was that I'd done something bad, something I'd get reprimanded for by my parents. I was suddenly awake, in my own bed with sunlight streaming through the windows. My parents were still fighting in the kitchen all the way at the other end of the house, thinking that I couldn't hear them. Only, I could. But instead of feeling stressed, anxious, angry or saddend by my parent's screaming match, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I imagined it to be the worst feeling in the world if I could feel.

I went down for breakfast that morning only to be met with my parents glaring at each other across the table. As I poured myself a glass of orange juice, my mother let out the highest pitched gasp I'd ever heard. "What?" I looked down at my small, pyjama-clad body.

She grabbed my wrist but wherever she touched stung. Turns out I could feel only physically. All up and down my stick-thin arms were burns mixed with frost bite. Funny how I hadn't left my bed all night long. Almost every night since I've had dreams of him, I felt nothing.

* * *

Over the years, I've learned to fake emotions. It's not as easy as you think, especially when you have to do it all the time. I don't ever feel happy, satisfied, upset, angry, worried, anxious, euphoria, or paranoia even. Nothing. More than once, I couldn't help thinking that death would be better than the life I was living. But the small voice in my head always fed me the idea that one day I would wake up from this never-ending nightmare.

That is what I would imagine to be ironic. I'll never be anything other than a living, breathing robot. And when I was eleven, I didn't want to feel anything. Given, it was because of my parents always arguing, dragging me into the middle of it all.

I do whatever my parents tell me, because really, I don't know if I like things or not. I don't complain when doing homework, I don't complain when my father drops me off at kickboxing six days a week. Imagine that: me, barely over five-feet tall and nothing-pounds, doing kickboxing. In my spare time at my mother's, I paint with her. I cook quite often, even if I'm not hungry, mostly because I can feel the heat from the stovetop burning my skin and the hot oil spraying up and onto me. Sometimes in winter, I'll go outside, feigning like I forgot to bring a jacket and walk around, feeling and allowing the cold to bite viciously at my exposed skin. I _feel_.

My mother says I'm clumsy. I'll give her that, because, well, people always tell me I am. I remember when she'd tried putting me in dance classes when I was thirteen, and the teacher was always muttering curses under her breath about how clumsy I was in her thick French accent. The day she pulled me out of dance classes is the day I bet made her wish she had another daughter who could _dance_ and do girly things along those lines. But, she never got one.

Can you begin to imagine going through all the major events of your life unfeeling? It's almost like you don't mature, because you can't feel things the way others do and learn from said feelings. Try being me, in creative writing class. I only barely passed because I read and read stories that people claimed had such great emotion woven in.

Lying in my bed, I think about my seventeenth birthday, only a few days away. I'll forever have the emotional capacity of an eleven year-old.

I could swear that as I squish my head further into the plush pillow, I feel a rush of emotion swell inside of me, something wet rolling down my cheek. It can't be. I haven't cried in nearly five years. Before I can ponder more on whether or not I just cried a tear, I'm forcefully pushed into a deep sleep. Some may describe it as a comatose-like state, but I just say it's another day in my life. It always happens before I see him, the man with black wings. The owner of my soul.

* * *

This time, we're standing on a frozen-over body of water. No cracks split the ice, not that I can see as large snowflakes fall over the slippery solid. The man still looks the same as ever, even with his back turned to me. The black wings sprout from his skin, where his ribs ought to be. His posture is stiff, like maybe having the large wings, parodying that of an angel, is hurting him. His white hair isn't slicked back for the first time. Instead, it's hanging in his darkened green eyes.

"It's about time, Clarissa."

"Sorry that I had to get up and go to school like a normal person," I chuckles, though the howling wind almost covers the sound completely. The force of it blows bright red hair into my face. I push it away, but without the impatience I might have had four or five years ago.

He turns around, his green eyes finding mine. I remember when I first met him and his eyes weren't that colour—they were bright, almost lively. In a few strides, he's reached me. Normally, this far into the dream the scene would've changed to the scorching flames at least once, but not yet. The cold nips at my fingers and I feel them going numb already.

"What are you doing?" I ask, his tall, lithe form bending over to reach the top of my head. When I was eleven, he'd had to crouch down to reach the top of my head. Now, he needed only to bend over.

"Hush, little sister." He kisses the top of my head, and I'm knocked off my feet by a large gust of something. Wind, perhaps? The ice is cold against my skin as my body is wracked by shivers. Hot tears pour down my face, searing my skin where they touch. The feel of it is strange, but not unwelcome. I feel angry, angry at him for taking my soul from me at such a young age, of depriving me of feeling things the way normal people do. He's crouched down beside my small form, his skin almost the same shade as mine; he pushes a piece of my hair back behind my ear. I slap his hand away, scrambling on the ice to stand up.

"Don't touch me!" I yell, and the ice breaks open just a bit, a loud crack amidst the silence. It's then that I notice the snow has stopped falling, the wind has ceased it's howling. Almost like they're holding their breaths to see what happens.

Then, he does possibly the most surprising thing he could: he grins.

"Welcome back, little sister."

"What did you call me?" I demand, narrowing my eyes at him and his boyish grin. I feel like complete, utter chaos. Like someone has taken a perfectly white room and splattered coloured paint over everything. It's the best thing I can ever remember feeling.

"Ah," he grins even wider. "You don't remember me?"

"Of course I remember you—you tricked me into selling my soul."

"Oh, no, no, no," he shakes his head, white hair once again falling into his eyes. "I solved all your problems. Didn't I?" He looks at me, almost hopefully.

My eyebrows must be in or very near my hairline. I glower up at him. "You deprived me the privilege of feeling," I grit out. "I've been numb for the past six years of my life! I felt nothing; I might as well have been dead, for all I lived!"

He grabs my wrists in his hands; I can't pull away, either. "Don't say such things, Clarissa," he orders. His tone suggests I have no choice but to comply. Like hell I will.

"I should be dead. All the times I tried to burn myself or break my bones!"

His grip tightens noticeably on my wrists; he might just break my bones. His gaze quickly shifts to my arms, where the evidence of previous burns litter my pale skin.

He looks lost, like he doesn't know what to say or do. The ice cracks again. It must mean something, I just don't know what. "I—I thought I was helping you," he stumbles on his words.

"That's how you help your 'little sister?'" I demand. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

His eyes meet mine again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You want to put money on that?" I challenge. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, feel the rush. Where it's coming from, I have no idea.

Silence follows and it lasts much longer than it ever has with him.

"I need a favor."

Of course he does—why else would he have given me back my soul? If I ever thought, even for a second, it was because he cared for me, I'm sorely mistaken it seems.

Maybe if I do him this favor, he'll leave me alone.

"What is it?" His head shoots up, that must've been the exact opposite of what he was expecting.

"Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall..." he trails off and before I can even bat an eyelash, the ice cracks open completely, swallowing me up. The breath is ripped from my lungs but I can't scream.

* * *

My lungs are burning, the air is thick. I can't breathe.

My eyes open. My orange walls are alight with illumination—not sunshine, either. The flames battle the darkness of my room, licking at the paint, eating away at the wood floor, my mattress, sheets, my dresser. Everything is bathed in flames.

"Clary!" My mother's voice rings through the heavy smoke. The smoke alarm is going berserk. Guess we can cross a burning building off of the list of places you can see my mother's red hair. "Clary!" She calls again.

"Mom! _Mom_!" I say it like a chant, wanting to leave my bed, but the floor is engulfed flames.

"Clary, breathe, it's going to be okay." And I do. I breathe, inhaling the tainted air. I cough, and cough. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take deep breaths. In, out. In, out. Repeat. In, out. In, out. Repeat.

When I open my eyes, the flames have gone out, as if someone poured a gallon of water through my ceiling, extinguishing the fire. My bed is more than singed. It's absolutely fried. The floor is black, charred. My whole room is destroyed and burned. Even the ceiling has small, black wisps reaching towards the white center like some sort of demented fingers.

My mother races across the blackened floor, while I sit shocked on my bed, not daring to move a muscle. Did that just happen—did I do that? She crouches before me, worried green eyes scanning my body for burns. There are none, unless the ones up and down my arms count.

"How..." She trails off, utterly as lost, as I am.

"Mom," I squeak, pulling her to me. Her body is frozen for a moment before reciprocating my hug. I've never shown direct affection to anyone before, so it must be a surprise. Once again, hot tears trail down my cheeks, landing in my mother's messy red bun.

Out of my peripheral vision, I swear I can see dark green eyes watching me and black wings fluttering almost noiselessly.

* * *

I thank whatever is up in the sky that I'd had the weekend to get used to having, well, feelings again. I felt everything double—no, triple. I actually cried because we ran out of Fruit Loops. My mom kept looking at me like I'd snapped, and I should face it—I probably have. Seriously, some guy who's supposedly your brother, stealing your soul because he thinks he's somehow protecting you? Whatever's in the air is making me crazy. Actually crazy.

Not to mention, I haven't slept in the past two days, fearing that I'll dream about him again, or I'll wake up in a fiery pit once more. I don't think my mom would like me lighting her house on fire again. I don't think her bank account would appreciate it much, either.

I don't think I can stand being around the woman—much as I may love her—for another second, with the way she keeps looking over her shoulder at me every ten seconds as if I'm going to try pulling a knife on her or something.

That is the only reason I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my unruly hair back, not interested to do anything else with it. My friends are going to get quite the surprise this morning: I have a personality now.

Only two days ago I was robotic and for the most part silent, keeping to myself, and now—now, I can actually hold up a conversation without feeling like a prisoner in my own mind. Taking a deep breath, I leave the house and take my usual route to school.

* * *

I haven't seen them all day. We all have different schedules, which makes it hard to talk in between classes, but now it's lunch, and thankfully, I have lunch with at least one of my friends.

Pushing open the cafeteria doors, I spot our table immediately, which alarms me. Usually, our table is blocked from view because of all the other students crowding the place. Most of them—them being girls—are gathered at one table in particular.

I don't bother getting in the deserted lunch line because the food is disgusting. I sit down at our table, looking to Alec for an indication as to what is so important that practically the entire female population of St. Xavier's needs to see.

"Some new guy," he shrugs, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"That's what they're crowding over?" I scoff.

Alec looks straight at me, shock written all over his chiselled features. "Did you just—did you just talk?"

I nod. "Yeah. Isn't that most normal people do with their friends?"

He just stares at me like I'm an alien. "Are you feeling alright, Clary?"

"Just fantastic," I murmur in response. Alec still looks positively stunned by my recent talkativeness, while I try and get a glimpse of said new student through the miniscule gaps between fawning teenage girls.

"Oh," someone says, pulling out a chair beside Alec. "Munchkin has a personality?"

I roll my eyes, meeting the man's gaze head-on. "Is that a loose thread I see?" I fake gasp, pointing at his blazer.

Magnus's eyes go wide. "What? Where is it?" He demands, pulling at his blazer and trying to find the non-existant loose thread.

"There isn't one, Magnus," Alec claps him on the shoulder. Magnus scowls at me, which surely turns into a pout as he crosses his arms like a child, propping his feet on the table. The soles of his silver boots very nearly touch my folded hands, before I pull them away, hastily wiping the palms of my hands against the rough fabric of my jeans.

Magnus, always being the one most uncomfortable with long stretches of silence, is the first to break it. "So," he waggles his eyebrows at me. "Have you got a look at Mr. Ken Doll over there?"

"What?" I ask, cocking my head to the side a little.

Magnus groans obnoxiously, tilting his head in the direction of the definitely over-populated table. "The new kid." He says it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and I'm just plain stupid.

"Oh—no, I haven't."

"I'm not surprised," Magnus gives me a look as he taps his enamel-clad nails against the grimy lunch table. "But it won't be long, Biscuit, I assure you." _Biscuit_? Was that supposed to be some sort of nickname, or term of endearment? If so, I wonder how on earth it is that Magnus and Alec are still together. Then again, how they ever got together in the first place is a mystery for the ages.

"What do you mean?" Alec's tone is protective, almost, as he is suddenly engaged in the conversation where he'd been absent for the past three minutes. He acts like my older brother, and sometimes it really gets on my nerves. When he's met with silence from his boyfriend, he grits out, cheeks flushing with anger, "Damn it, Magnus. Tell me!" He hammers his fist down against the table, coercing the old thing to wobble unsteadily on its metal legs. A couple of people look over at our table.

"Jeez, alright," Magnus pushes Alec back down into his seat. "I mean that with our dear Clary's new ability to speak—and not to mention that fiery personality of hers—she'll be noticed. It's really only a matter of time."

Well, that was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Before either Alec or I can reply, though, the bell rings, signalling that lunch is over and we had better get to class unless we want detention after school, hosted by none other than Mr. Starkweather, an old man who should have retired long ago.

"See you later," I smile at Alec as I stand from my seat.

Magnus gives me a knowing smirk and a two-fingered wave as he takes a bite out of an apple that I'm not sure where he got it. I think I may be a little sleep-deprived. Still, I can't stop wondering what that look was for.

* * *

My next class is art, one I share with Maia Roberts, a pretty dark-skinned girl with a curvy, athletic body. She offers me a smile as I take my seat next to her. For whatever reason, there is partner-seating in the art class, which makes me think that at one point it was the science classroom.

"Hey, Clary," her smile grows into a grin.

"Hey," I grin back. I don't know what's got her all happy, but whatever it is, it must be good. She looks momentarily stunned, her glossed lips parted a few millimetres. She blinks a few times, like she can't quite process the feat that is me speaking.

She shakes her head, tight brown curls bouncing with the motion. "Have you seen the new guy?" She drums her fingers against the black table. There must be something awfully special about this new guy for Maia to be talking about him—normally, it's like she's got tunnel vision for her boyfriend, Jordan.

"No—but he's got all the girls under some sort of love spell, or something," I shrug.

Maia laughs. "If you saw him, you would understand."

"I don't think I want to understand, then." I reply stubbornly, unzipping my bag and withdrawing my beat-up sketch book. The once-black cover is scratched up, the corners peeling, the spiral-binding threatening to come apart. I need to go shopping for a new one, preferably sometime soon.

"You don't know what you're missing," Maia sing-songs, twirling a pencil between her fingers. All I can think about, though, is my practically ruined sketchbook; and that's perfectly fine. I've never been one of those girls obsessing over guys, but then again, it's probably because I was an emotionless robot for a good six years of my life.

It's then that the teacher begins her lesson, finishing quickly and giving us an assignment. I work furiously on my drawing; feeling the pencil glide against the paper somehow soothes me. It's not enough of a distraction, because soon enough my mind is on the still-stranger that I've been dreaming about for the past six years. The way his black wings are always ruffled, like the icy winds disrupt them, the way his eyes gradually got harder and colder, the green darkening with every dream. I can't stop thinking about the words he'd spoken to me before I fell. _Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall..._

I look down at my hands as the bell dismisses us, frowning at the coat of gray that now cover them and the pads of my fingers. My drawing is far from what I usually draw. So far it almost scares me. It's the boy from my dreams, hair falling into his eyes just like last night, and his wings swooping out behind him elegantly. I scribble my name at the bottom of the page, ripping it from my sketch book, and hand the paper to my teacher on my way out the door.

I just need to get to English, I think. I scurry past people in the hallway. For whatever reason, I hope that English can divert my attention from the dreams, even just for a little while. I'd be okay with that. That is, until I think about what dreams await me tonight. I violently shove away the thoughts, walking into English. I take a seat near the back of the class, watching as students file in. Most of the seats are filled when the late bell rings. It's only a matter of time before the last of the seats are occupied by detention-slip bearers. Mr. Fitz is generally one of my favourite teachers, but he's strict, and hates people coming in late.

He leans against his rickety wood desk, arms crossed as he waits for the final seats to be filled. His curly coffee hair shines in the sunlight, and I can't help thinking how similar the colour is to Isabelle's eyes. She's Alec's fraternal twin. We're not close but we're friends, I guess.

Mr. Fitz has long given up on waiting for the late-comers as he writes something on the chalkboard. He turns, clapping his hands together. "Can anyone tell me about Edgar Allan Poe?"

Not a minute later, a group of boys walk into the class, some laughing obnoxiously loud, others talking just as loudly, like they're trying to overpower the others. In the center of all the chaos that is the group, is a boy. I haven't seen him before, not in the four months since school started—he must be the new kid every girl is practically drooling over.

His hair is that shade of blonde that so many people wish they could have, but seems to exist only in fairytales: gold. His skin is strangely tan for December in New York; he's probably from some sunny state. I can't see his eyes, but I have a feeling they'll be breath-taking, just like the rest of him. He has prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw line, and a narrow mouth. I'm seriously debating whether or not he's had plastic surgery, because, well, no teenage boy looks like he does. Magnus was right, because— _oh my God_ —he looks like a _Ken Doll_.

Mr. Fitz clears his throat and the group goes stark silent, all smirks and grins gone, replaced by blank, somewhat fearful expressions. Except, I see one smirk. Specifically from Ken Doll. This is certainly going to be entertaining.

"Detention," Mr. Fitz says without falter. Groans resound through the room as Mr. Fitz hands out detention slips to the rowdy group. I have to hide my surprising satisfaction when even the new kid gets one. However, it seems the leather jacket-clad boy is unaffected by the yellow piece of paper covered in chicken-scratch writing. It's as if the piece of paper is beneath him, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

Every girl in the class—even Maia—is fixated on the new-comer. I, however, can't be bothered. So what if he's physically flawless? He's probably got such an awful personality, Sebastian Verlac—this guy in my science class who thinks that he's God's gift to the world—would be jealous. Instead of staring at the guy like he's the only source of water in a drought, I take to my notebook, doodling some angel wings. Then it occurs to me—I haven't taken my mind off of the stranger in my dreams, merely relaxed a little bit.

Maybe that's the key to—

Someone drops a bag on the floor near me.

In hindsight, I shouldn't have looked up.

Sitting in the seat closet to Maia and I's table, is none other than the new kid. I'm almost positive that Maia has gone into shock over this new development. But, that's not the worst part. Man, I wish it was. He's smirking at me, like he knows something I don't. It makes me instantly dislike him, acting so complacent, so smug—whatever you want to call it, I don't like it.

I quickly dismiss him, looking back down at my notebook. I know that I'll definitely try and pay attention to whatever it is about Edgar Allan Poe Mr. Fitz is saying.

And it's not because I care.

* * *

After school—and two treacherous classes with the new kid, whose name I still haven't bothered to learn—I lean against Alec's car, waiting not-so-patiently for him to exit the massive building the government calls school, and what I call mandatory educatory-daycare. I should have driven to school, but no, I had to take the "healthy way" and walk. And now I must rely on turtle-Alec for a ride to wherever.

It's another ten minutes before he comes outside, and he's not alone like he usually is. And, no, I don't mean he's with his glitter-using, eccentric boyfriend, I mean he's with the blonde, has-the-whole-cheerleading-squad-kissing-the-ground-he-walks-on, new kid. They're laughing, Alec throwing his head back, his usually bland blue eyes lighting up to their true electric colour. I only ever get to see him like that every once in a while, like on Thanksgiving weekend, when Magnus choked on stuffing and very nearly died—whilst Alec died of laughter, and I pretended to. It's a whole lot harder to actually do than it seems.

They part ways— _thank God_ —the new kid heading to the other end of the parking lot, Alec heading towards me. I don't know why, but I'm royally ticked off now, and I want to key Alec's pretty, pretty black Mercedes.

"Hey," Alec grins at me, offering a two-fingered wave in my direction.

I'm pretty sure smoke comes out when I let out a breath. Then again, it could be that it's nearly mid-December, and it would be a rare thing for your breath to not come out in cloud-like fashion. I decide that it would be best for both of us—mainly Alec—if I didn't respond.

He digs around in the pocket of his baggy jeans for the keys. Finally finding purchase, he unlocks the car. The car is just as cold as it is outside. _Fantastic_! I can freeze to death in the comfort of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

Alec slips the keys into the ignition, the vents blasting icy air at me. Soon enough, we're pulling out of the parking lot, onto the bustling New York streets. Traffic after school—and really any time—is horrible.

I fold my arms over my chest, staring out at the passing buildings and people, refusing to look at Alec, or speak to him for that matter. Really, I have no reason to be angry with him but I am just for associating with the blonde He-Devil—or who I assume to be a He-Devil.

"Have you met the new kid—Jace?" Alec asks excitedly.

I actually hadn't, but I'd seen him, and that was enough. "No," I grumble.

"Well, I invited him over—to hang out." I swear Alec might actually be bouncing in his seat.

"Joyous," I reply sarcastically. "Drop me off at home, in that case."

Alec's eyes look over at me quickly as he steers down a winding side-street. "What? Why?"

"I just—I have homework to get done, and if his obnoxiously loud laughter is any indication of his personality, I think I'll just spend my evening huddled up in my room with my sketchpad." Surprisingly, I only have to finish my math homework, and read "The Tell Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe, which won't take me long at all. I was really hoping that Alec and I could do something at least mildly fun tonight. I guess not.

"Clary, don't—I want to hang out with you." It's something akin to begging. I'm not going to budge, though. Okay, I might, just a little.

"Take me home, Alec. If you don't want to, its fine, I'll just walk." I don't feel like being around people right now and walking—even in the snow shower—is sounding like the better option as opposed to sitting through an awkward car ride with Alec.

"Stop saying stupid things," Alec shakes his head; I think I can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. And I can't help smiling back, even if it goes against my mood.

* * *

My Mom is out when Alec drops me off at the Brownstone. The Brownstone is an old house, separated into two apartments—the upstairs, which is my apartment, and the downstairs, which is my neighbour Madame Dorothea's.

She's a weird old lady that runs a psychic shop, with dark, tightly-curled hair, and a deeply tanned complexion. She wears baggy, oddly patterned sundresses and slippers. Sometimes she just sits outside her apartment door in a red lounge chair, watching as we walk up the stairs to our apartment. Unfortunately, it's the only the way up.

Thankfully, she isn't sitting outside her apartment when I go up the stairs. Though, I wouldn't put it past her to spy on us through her peephole. It never really bothered me before, but now I realize how creepy it actually is. Shuddering slightly, I take the stairs two at a time.

I unlock the door, pushing on the metal door, a few pieces of green paint fluttering to the ground.

Just as I anticipated, a note is taped to the fridge explaining that my mother has gone to visit her old friend, Luke, who just so happens to live in Canada. She also tells me not to light my bedroom on fire again. Yeah, because I'm going to so light all of my possessions on fire, voluntarily, for a second time. Wondering if my mom thinks I'm some sort of psychopath dead set on burning us alive, I head to my room, the weight of the books in my bag seemingly pulling me down. Or maybe it's the unexpected wave of drowsiness that washes over me.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, I dream of the stranger again. His white hair is blowing in the icy wind, green eyes narrowing at me accusingly. What did _I_ do?

"You're not supposed to be able to do that."

"Do _what_?"

"Wake up from the dream."

"Excuse me?"

"Not unless I release you," he explains. "You're stronger than I thought."

"Oh, gee, thanks," I spit sarcastically, watching his black, beaten wings move up and down with his breathing pattern. "That means a lot coming from a total stranger."

"Clarissa, I—you don't know who I am?" He looks wounded by my words, like we'd been best friends all our lives and I'd completely forgotten him.

"No," I purse my lips, the harsh cold cutting through my thin jeans like a knife.

"It's Jonathan, your brother."

* * *

 **What do you guys think? Drop me a review, tell me whether or not I should continue.**


	2. I Broke Your Door

**This chapter is un-beta-ed! So ignore any spelling/grammatical errors for now.**

* * *

"I don't have a brother."

He closes his eyes, running hand roughly through his wind-blown hair. "God," he mutters. "Just...forget I said that, alright?"

"What? No, you can't spring something like that on me and then tell me to forget about it!"

"Never mind," his tone implies there will be no more words spoken on the topic.

"Why am I here, again?"

"I didn't get to tell you."

"Tell me what? Jesus, just spit it out." I'm becoming impatient, and in the distance, I hear the loud crack of splitting, cracking ice.

"Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall...but one has, and he can't be here."

"What in the world are you talking about?" I rub my temples—can you get a headache in a dream?

"I'm talking about a fallen angel. You've heard of Lucifer? He fell, but he never got back up, because he refused to bow to mankind. What I'm getting at is, well, when you're dead, you're dead. There's no coming back, nothing of the sort. But, of course, there are loop holes, and it seems someone has found one."

I shake my head. "What does that have to do with _me_?"

"Remember that favor?" He grins at me—oh, god, I'm not going to like this. "I need your help to get him back."

"You're talking about this person like they're your friend," I mutter.

"We were friends, Clarissa," Jonathan says, if I'm not having auditory hallucinations, his tone is quiet, like he's sad.

" _Great_ ," I say rather loudly, and quite insensitively. "Now, can you tell me what you want from me?"

"Convince him to come back," he says, eyes snapping up to meet mine.

"Convince _who_?"

Jonathan grins wickedly at me. "It's all part of the fun, little sister: you get to figure out whom." The ice let out a thunderous crack, it echoes for miles, it seems, and before I can process what's happening, the ground splits in two, swallowing me up. Air ripped from my lungs, mind blank, arms flailing, as if it will stop the inevitable fall.

* * *

A dry scream rips from my throat; I struggle to sit up, blankets acting as an anchor, holding me down and in place. I place a hand on my chest, feeling the erratic, unsteadying beating of my heart. It felt as if I were really falling, just as it had the first time. My forehead is beaded with sweat, my books lying scattered on the floor. They must've fallen off when I started tossing and turning. When will he leave me alone?

Rolling my shoulders, I stand up and stretch. He might be able to control my dreams, but the waking hours are mine, and mine alone.

The clock flashes _6:34 p.m._ and I know my mom isn't home. Otherwise, the smell of paint would be heavier, or I'd have already been woken up. And then I remember: she won't be back for a while.

We may live in a small Brownstone with a creepy downstairs neighbour, but we are by no means poor. My mother gets her money from her paintings – and her divorce settlement – while my father gets his from his company – whatever it is that he does.

My phone begins buzzing furiously on my nightstand, coercing me to give out a surprised yelp. The noise rings through the empty apartment, causing me to turn a little bitter at the thought of my mother's clear conscience despite leaving her only child alone for weeks at a time.

Shaking my head, I grab my phone from where it has neared the edge of my nightstand, threatening to fall off completely. I look at the screen, where a blue screen with Alec's name is lit up. I swipe to answer.

"Hello?" I ask, almost hesitantly.

"Clary, what are you doing?" His tone is somewhat jovial; leaving me to ponder over what it could be that has him so...happy.

I groan loudly into the phone, just to make a point. "I was napping, thank you very much, Alexander," his name comes out as a hiss.

"Napping – Clary, it's nearly eight-thirty, why are you _napping_ at _eight-thirty_?"

"Because my best friend isn't around to keep me entertained," I retort.

I'm almost positive I hear him rolling his eyes at me.

"Moving on – do you want to come over?"

"Is the _Ken Doll_ still there?"

"Yes."

"Then that'll be a no," I'm tempted to hang up the phone, and end the conversation right there, but Alec's sigh-like exhale of breath stops me in my tracks. "Alec, what?" I release a sigh of my own.

"Nothing, Clary."

"Alec," I whine, dragging out the last syllable of his name.

"I just wanted to hang out, but I guess I'll see you tomorrow." The dial tone sounds in my ear; he hung up on me. I stand stock-still, shocked. What was with Alec's mood?

* * *

I sleep fitfully, never staying asleep for too long, fearing that I'll dream of the angel that haunts my dreams. I have no choice but to sleep when a strong wave of drowsiness washes over me, drowning out my thoughts, drowning out the faint light emanating from my window.

This time, there is no ice. Suffocating heat surrounds me, flames around me like a fence – a prison, to keep me inside its perimeter. I think I prefer the cold over this – this hellhole.

"Time is ticking," his voice booms over the virtually empty space. I can't see him though, my eyes straining as I squint up at a ledge high in the air, like a small chunk of the black rock had been cut out. I see disheveled black wings peaking out over the edges of the ledge.

"Stop with the riddles, would you?" I shuffle my feet to the left, trying to avoid some flames that had started growing dangerously close to my skin. I see the flames on my left before I feel the pain, the flames on my left having grown even higher than those to my right. They appear to be leaning towards me, seemingly trying to devour me. I curse colorfully, staring down at my burned arm. Just great, another scar to add to the collection of marks that cover my fair skin.

A loud noise bounces off wall of rock, to wall of rock. I look up; ahead of me is Jonathan, his white hair hanging in his dark green eyes, wings spread out behind him as he stands from his kneeling position.

"Careful, little sister," the flames dance in his eyes. "I wouldn't want you getting hurt."

"Yeah," I mutter, "of course."

"Did you figure it out yet?"

"Figure out what?" I ask, exasperated with his coded speak.

"Who it is – the fallen one?"

"Okay, I'm done with these weird dreams," Raising my hands in surrender, I head towards the edge of the small chunk of black rock I'm standing on. My toes edging over the jagged ending of rock, flames licking at the delicate skin, giving rise to a series of desperately hidden hisses, and my biting my tongue to keep in the utterly pathetic noises that want to escape me.

"What are you doing? You can't just walk over the edge," Jonathan gives an unsure laugh. I hear his footsteps, his heavy boots crunching small bits and pieces of rock underfoot.

I look over my shoulder at him, watching as his long strides easily cover the short distance between us. " _Watch me_." I step over the edge, letting my body free fall into the flaming pits of wherever it is we are. Air is ripped from my lungs; distorted voices fill my ears, whispers of the dead, laughs echo madly through the air. As if someone were watching with delight as I fall to my death.

A dry, guttural scream rips from my throat, and then the sobs wrack my body. Tears coat my pillow, the wet fabric sticking to my face. I somehow curl in myself, wishing for nothing more than to be left alone.

And then, my sobs catch in my throat, listening for the noise I very well might have just imagined: the clicks of heels against the hardwood fills the apartment. Hastily, I pull the covers up, wiping my soaked face against the somewhat rough material. Sniffing, I hide my head under the covers – now covered in blotchy wet spots – hoping my mother will think I'm asleep and leave me be.

"Clary, I know you're under those ugly covers," Isabelle's voice rings out like a bell, her tone knowing. I can see her outline through the covers, a tall, curvy silhouette, hand perched on her hip.

My first mistake, was thinking I would appear to be asleep – even to someone who is as in-space, and unobservant to everything but her art as my mother. My second mistake, was letting out a sniffle-hiccup type noise.

A few more clicks of heels, and my bed sinks down. Isabelle places a slightly hesitant hand on my side. "Clary, please," her tone is something akin to pleading. "It's just me – Izzy."

I meet her words with silence, knowing I'll only cry more if I open my mouth. And there's no need for Isabelle Lightwood to hear my pitiful sobs.

"Alright," Isabelle sighs. "You're probably wondering what I – of all people – am doing here, in your...humble abode. Well, the answer is simple: my brother is a complete, and utter jerk."

This time, I can't hold back my words – okay, more like snort. "Damn straight," I reply with too much enthusiasm for the circumstances. Isabelle's musical laughter fills my ears, her gentle hand on my side convincing me that maybe – just maybe – she actually cares.

"He is, and I don't know why he's being the way he is," I can hear the disapproving tone in her voice, even though she tries to keep her voice light.

"You met the _Ken Doll_?" I ask her bitterly, peeling the damp covers away from my face and sitting up. The corners of her mouth fold downwards, perfectly-plucked eyebrows furrowing in thought. Her coal eyes, reminding me of the black rock from which I'd jumped in my dream, flit up to meet mine, curiosity and confusion written over her chiselled features that remind me with a stabbing pain of Alec.

"Who?"

"The new kid? Oh – Jake, or something..." I trail off, my eyes wandering to my interlaced hands in my lap. I purposely didn't remember his name, hating it from the second it rolled off of Alec's tongue earlier today, or was it that late? I look out my window, watching the lights scan faintly over my orange walls.

"Jace?" Isabelle sounds surprised.

I nod my head, bitterness pulsing deliciously through my veins.

Isabelle mutters his name, followed by some very – _very_ – insulting words. It makes me feel glad, and admittedly, a little smug to know that Isabelle hates him, too. "Complacent ass," she finishes, looking back at me with an apologetic smile that she drops within the second.

"I know why _I_ hate him – but why do _you_ hate him?" I lean forward despite myself, eager like a child on Christmas Eve, to hear what she is going to say. She drums her manicured nails on her leg.

"He hit on me – multiple times," she scoffs, "and then tried to ask me out!" She says it as though it's the biggest, most shocking thing to ever happen in the history of the human race.

"Isabelle, practically every guy has hit on you and or asked you out, you realize?"

"Well, _duh_!" She holds her arms out and then drops them to her sides, very nearly hitting me in the face. "But he was so – so smug about it, like he knew I would say yes."

"Did you?"

"God – no!" Isabelle looks and sounds absolutely repulsed by the idea. Good.

Silence follows, and after a few beats, Isabelle's attention snaps back to me, sudden realization flashing in her coal eyes. "But _you_ – you aren't alright, are you? I mean, Alec is your best friend, and he just...up and ditches you for that blonde, brain dead, _idiot_!" She seethes.

I wish I could muster up that kind of anger, be angry at Alec, but I just can't. Despite myself, I feel my lower lip begin to wobble and my throat feels as though it's being constricted. Even worse, a salty droplet rolls down my cheek, and another, and another.

Isabelle keeps talking, trying to get me to stop crying, only to have her words, I assume are gentle and meant to soothe, fall on deaf ears. I wipe furiously at my eyes, letting out a strangled noise of frustration. When I can finally open my mouth without the threat of tears spilling over, I quietly ask, "why is he angry at me?"

Isabelle opens her mouth, and closes it, repeating the process a couple of times. "He's just excited to have made a new friend," she rubs her hand up and down my back. "And when you didn't want to hang out with him...I don't know, Clary - you'll have to ask him."

I nod, feeling stupid. Of course, it makes perfect sense; now that I have a personality, he doesn't like me. I don't blame him either. I hit my head against my headboard, a sharp pain shooting through my head coerces me to shoot forward, clutching my head in my hands. Jonathan's words echo through my head, nearly drowned out by an even worse pounding, as if someone were hammering on my head from the inside.

Isabelle lets out a sharp gasp. When the throbbing and pounding subsides, I look up at her through my lashes. "Clary...what – on your wrist..." She grips my forearm in her cold hand, I want to hiss in pain at the contact, but opt for squeezing my eyes shut and biting down on my tongue to stifle the hisses and gasps. Her fingers trail across my scarred, porcelain skin, her touch light, but painful all the same.

Her coal eyes meet mine, the lights of New York reflected in them. "What are these?"

I wish I'd have changed my clothes, maybe worn a long-sleeve shirt, because I have nothing to hide the scars. Most of them are small, or are just silver and white marks that fade in with my light skin-tone, but when you look, they're there. The sharpness of her features is softened by the concern that is so evidently written on her face like a vice, stirring up the memory of Alec, when I'd sat outside in the dead of winter, just to have the privilege to feel something. He'd found me, shivering uncontrollably and probably a few different shades of blue.

"You can tell me...I – I won't say anything, I promise." Is she implying what I think she is?

"Isabelle, I didn't do this to myself with a blade, if that's what you're thinking." My voice is quiet, barely audible even to my own ears.

"I didn't think so."

Silence hangs over us, full of questions that I've never wanted to answer – that I don't have answers to. That is, until Isabelle tells me she broke my front door in order to get inside.

"What? I needed to get in somehow, and you sleep like the dead." She says coolly, shrugging as she examines her perfect nails for even a minor flaw.

"So you broke my door?!"

"Yes, I thought we went over this?" She dismisses, standing up, offering a hand to me, one which I just stare at blankly. She rolls her eyes at me. "Oh, _come_ _on_ , Clary. You didn't think I'd actually let you stay here alone and with a broken door, did you?"

I grumble at her, pulling myself from the comforting confines of my bed. She orders me to get dressed and to pack a bag, because – and I quote – I am not "spending God knows how long alone in this apartment, when you have a friend offering you a place to stay." I don't think that's the only reason she wants me to go over, though. I have a sneaking suspicion it has more something to do with the fact that Ken Doll is there.

* * *

The Lightwoods have an unspoken motto: go big, or go home. And, well, in this case the "big" is their home. It's an old Victorian-style house, with scaffolded, snow-white pillars, and at least thirty-six bathrooms. Alright, I'm exaggerating, but every bedroom in the house has an en suite. And there are over ten bedrooms. Just saying.

Isabelle's iris blue car, so similar to her brother's shines in the moon light, sending a nasty glare of light my way. I think I still want to key Alec's Mercedes. Yes, I do. I really – _really_ – still want to key Alec's Mercedes, and the black sports car parked across a good portion of the cobble-stone, cleaned-once-a-week driveway. I wonder _who_ that gorgeously expensive car belongs to.

I only turn away from the cars when I hear the lock of the front door click, following Isabelle inside of the mansion. Crystal chandeliers gleam from above, shedding light into even the darkest corners of the mansion. It's the kind of house you only see in movies, you know, the ones with twin marble staircases and flowers more expensive than your entire house perched on even more costly tables?

Well, this isn't a movie, but there _are_ expensive orchids placed most delicately in a crystal vase I'm almost positive is meant to match the breathtaking chandeliers.

Isabelle drops my bag by the staircase, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

* * *

I plop down on the couch beside Alec, the smell of popcorn swirling about. "Hey, check this out," he grins at the screen where he's playing some game or another.

"What?" I lean forward, hand on his shoulder.

His head snaps back to look at me. "Clary?"

I frown, furrowing my brows at him. "Who did you think I was?"

"Is this your sister?" Both Alec and I turn in response to the voice.

"Who?" Alec asks, looking like a dear caught in headlights.

Ken Doll nods his head in my direction, all while I shoot him a vicious glare. If looks could kill, I hope the vile glare I'm sending him would have him lying on the floor, unfairly tanned skin icy and white, a sword sticking out of his chest cavity.

"Clary isn't my sister," Alec frowns at Ken Doll. "You met my sister, and tried to hit on her, no less."

"You said you had another sister –"

"I said I had a little _brother_ ," Alec cuts him off curtly.

The Ken Doll shoots me a smirk, shrugging as the light catches his tawny eyes. "My mistake." Oh that –

I'm seriously considering committing murder, when Isabelle makes her entrance, striding in, her glossy hair pulled all to one side. "Come on, Clary, we have to get ready."

"Get ready?" Alec echoes, tossing the controller onto the couch beside him.

"Yes, Alec, get ready," Isabelle replies blankly, holding his gaze.

"For what?" Ken Doll inquires, raising a fair eyebrow.

"You'll find out," Isabelle grins at her brother, that same mischievous gleam I'd seen earlier dancing in her eyes.

"What?" Alec demands, sounding once again, like my protective, older brother. He gets to his feet, trying to tuck me behind him, as if he were standing between me and death itself.

"Oh, you know...things," Isabelle draws out her sentence, running her hand along the wall, the ruby pendant hanging from her throat catching my attention – when had she gotten that? She looks up, eyes bright. "Frankly, I don't see how it matters to you, Alec. Now," she shoots me a look as I get up from the couch, shoving Alec a few inches to the right in the process.

"Clary –," he begins, grabbing for me, only to find that I've put my short legs to use, and am too far away for him to grab.

"Bye, Alec," I wave at him as I take a step up the stairs.

* * *

"Where are we going, exactly?" I ask, watching curiously as Isabelle tosses clothes anywhere and everywhere. Some are sparkly, not an inch of fabric safe from the glittery substance, others such tiny scraps of fabric I barely see them as they fly through the air, landing amongst the chaos that is Isabelle's room.

Her room is black, with gold swirls so manifestly – and somewhat messily – sponged on. Pink feathers border her vanity table mirror, and the chair sitting in front of it – also covered with clothes.

"We're not going anywhere." She replies without looking back.

"What do you mean?" I sit up, resting my head in my hands.

"We, are throwing a party," Isabelle smiles triumphantly, tossing a balled up piece of clothing my way. I barely catch it, holding it in my lap, fiddling absently with the fabric.

"Isn't it a little short notice?" I'm a little apprehensive about throwing a party, because – well, it's just another thing on the long list that I've never done. And I don't know if I'll like the experience.

Isabelle scoffs, turning to face me with her hands placed disapprovingly upon her hips. I guess that's a no, then. She points to the bathroom. "Just – go get changed."

* * *

This thing is a scrap of fabric, much less a dress, as Isabelle refers to it. It barely has a back, not to mention no sleeves – and the lacy fabric feels uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and makes me a little itchy. Don't even get me started on the shoes – I can hardly walk in them.

"I look like a hooker," I pull on the dress, hoping it'll cover more than it does now – just gracing the tops of my thighs.

Isabelle waves a dismissive hand, staring down at a pile of clothes before her. "Lies," she mutters, holding up a white dress, almost silver when the light hits it. She turns, face lighting up at the sight of me – probably because I look ridiculous, and it'll be good for a laugh or two.

"All you need is a little make –,"the door is forcefully shoved open, Alec standing with his arms crossed.

"There are people downstairs," he says blankly, eyes still set on his twin.

Isabelle claps her hands like a giddy child. "Oh, yay! Come on, Clary." She pulls me forward, neatly shoving her brother out of the way with her hand and a bump of her hip.

"Clary – what are you _wearing_?" Alec demands, his tone laced with poorly concealed anger. He grabs me by the shoulders. It feels weird, having him touch me; we typically avoid contact, for whatever reason. He shakes me, and I rock unsteadily on my feet.

"It's a dress," I frown down at myself, and then up at him. His shockingly blue eyes are dark, colour high in his cheeks. "Surely you've seen one before."

"Funny. But _why_?" His tone is clipped, his cold fingers digging into my slim shoulders, thumb pressing painfully against my collar bone.

I look at Isabelle, who looks the norm, with her I-could-care-less expression, blood-red nails rapping irritably on the pristinely white wall beside her, like a spatter of blood. "We're having a party," I wriggle free of Alec's desperate grip, taking Isabelle's offered arm, and heading downstairs.

* * *

The magnificent crystal chandeliers shed warm, golden light on the writhing forms below it. The air is thick with the overpowering scent of liquor and cigarette smoke. Who in their right mind would light a cigarette up in a place so perfect-looking?

Bubbly, giggling girls stumble up and down the lacquered floors, while others hang back in the shadowy corners. Red solo cups litter every surface available, there's even some broken ones lying on the ground, small pieces here and there.

Isabelle doesn't seem to mind, though. Oh, no – she's pulling me into the heart of the swaying, intoxicated crowd. The ruby pendent at her throat glowing scarlet against her blemish-free skin, against the top hemline of her dress. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious over my arms; littered with scars, some small and white and silvery, others red and prominent like a fresh welt. The dress covers nothing, and I slowly let it sink in that even the long, jagged scar starting somewhere near the small of my back, trailing all the way down to the end of my spine is on display for others to stare with drunk, judgmental eyes.

I swallow thickly; had Alec seen it? Had his blonde ape-companion seen it?

No one seems to notice, though. I suppose the flaming hair is too much of a distraction. For once, the unruly mess atop my head has helped me.

" _Oh_ , let's get some _real_ booze!" Isabelle giggles mindlessly as if she's already wasted beyond comprehension. "Come on, Mary," she pulls me to a door across the room – and that's when I notice the red solo cup in her hand, filled with an amber liquid, the smell pungent. How many had she downed while I'd been worrying about someone seeing my exposed flesh?

"It's Clary," I remind her, despite my brain telling me she won't remember – nor will she care.

"Mm, oh – okay, Cherry," Isabelle fumbles with the brass knob in her hand for a beat, and when she does succeed in opening the door, she comes very close to crashing and burning down the steps.

My hands snag around her sculpted arm, hissing at her to be careful. She mumbles a reply before sashaying down the creaky wooden steps on wobbly heels. Reluctantly, I follow the whirlwind of raven hair and heels down into an unknown room. And despite there being very little light in the room, I know where we are – the sour smell and chill the room gibes off is enough of a hint.

We're in the Lightwood's wine cellar.

"Where is – _oh_!" Isabelle squeals in delight as I hear the flick of a light switch. An orange glow floods the room, bouncing off of the surely antique bottles of wine placed so immaculately on alphabetized shelves taller than me.

I watch, amused on some level, as Isabelle sways in her higher-than-heaven-heels, swiping at a bottle of wine with her bloody nails – fine, they aren't _bloody_ , but the way the light glints off of them, they look that way.

Before I'm sure of what she's doing, I hear her nails clink against the glass bottle, I hear her slurred cursing, and the popping of the lid. And then, I see her ever so sloppily place the mouth of the bottle against her lips, and then chug it for all she's worth. If Isabelle doesn't throw up within the span of the next four hours – at maximum - I'll be shocked.

"Your hair is s-so pretty," she drags out the last syllable in pretty, tugging at a strand of my copper locks. "It looks – it looks cherriessss –," and without warning, she lets out another squeal of delight and then drops the bottle of wine. It crashes to the floor, pieces of stained-red glass flying every which way, while the little remaining wine cuddles the soles of my borrowed shoes. Small rivulets of the red liquid roll down my bare legs.

" _No_ – help me – help me fix it," Isabelle slurs out in a slight stutter, kneeling down clumsily in the slowly expanding puddle of red wine. She whines in a high-pitched voice, which only succeeds in reminding me why Isabelle and I have never been more than acquaintances, if that.

" _Isabelle_ ," I position myself to pull her up by the arm, and when I finally get her to her clumsy feet, she leans heavily on my small shoulder, arm looped around my neck. Her pale, mile-long legs are stained red, as well as the bottom of her silver-white dress.

And all I can think is that she deserves for her gorgeous, expensive dress to be soaked and stained with red wine as I lug her practically immovable body up the stairs behind me.

* * *

Alec finds me in the crowd, his stained sister all but using me as her personal, portable bed. His blue irises narrow on his sister, at my scrap of fabric dress, and then again at his sister. He grumbles and groans angrily under his breath, making his way over to me.

And then, just to make the night even better, someone brushes close to me – _way_ to close to me. Their sweaty hand runs down my back, across the jagged scar – which they don't seem to notice – and down my backside. Alec growls deep in his throat, a guttural noise, before he raises his fist and smashes it to the manifestly drunk boy's face. The boy staggers, his cheeks flushing, and then he, too, raises his fist, only to swing at the air. Alec, having ducked down, missed the weak punch, and then, somehow, he's behind the boy, kicking out his locked knees. The boy jolts forward, arms flailing wildly in the air, his red solo cup meeting the dirty floors with him.

He just lays there, face pressed against the hardwood. People step over him, around him, and others right on his limp form.

Tearing his attention away from the boy, Alec takes the weight of his sister on to his own shoulders. She buries her face in the material of Alec's blue thermal sweater. "Christ, Izzy," he murmurs, brushing hair away from his sister's chiselled face.

"Put her to bed," I dismiss him. The last thing I feel like doing is talking with Alec.

He opens his mouth to object, but I look at him, feeling my eyelids like hundred-pound weights, feeling my shoulders sag in defeat, and he just sighs, "what did she drink?"

I chuckle bitterly. "She dragged me down here, I zoned out for a few minutes – maybe longer – and when I came back again, she was beyond hammered. Then, she brought me down to the wine cellar and chugged a bottle of wine – then, she said my hair looked like cherries, dropped the bottle and nearly sobbed at my feet to fix it while nearly laying in said wine."

Alec frowns at the red hem of Isabelle's white dress, at her stained skin, and then, my worst nightmare: he looks at me. He sees me without my sweater, my long-sleeves; without my security blanket – and then he says: "you have wine on your dress."

My chest deflates, my heart slows it's erratic pattern, and I can breathe again. "Oh – thanks."

He nods his head, motioning for me to follow him. And I do.

* * *

Alec offers me a guest room, which I decline. Broken door or not, I don't want to be here – I want to go home.

"Clary, don't be stupid – my sister broke your front door - it's the least I can do," he argues, tucking the sheet under Isabelle's chin.

"I'm going home Alec."

He shakes his head disapprovingly. "God, you are so _stubborn_."

"Goodnight, Alec," I pivot, ready to stride from his lavish mansion – except, there's someone in the way.

"You need a ride?" His left hand lifts, keys jingling. One corner of his mouth twitches upwards, because she knows I don't have one.

"Not from you," I cross my arms across my chest, behind what Alec would call stubborn, what my mother would call difficult, and what my father would call embracing my bloodline.

"Oh, I'm wounded," he deadpans, tawny eyes mocking.

I snort. "What? Did I deflate your massive ego fractionally?"

Alec stands awkwardly to the side as Jace replies: "are you saying I have a big ego? I assumed I was just confident in my own skin."

"Wow," I tilt my head back, eyes glazing over Alec. "How do you put up with this... _thing_?"

"You're one to speak," Jace scoffs. "I could ask Alec the same question regarding you."

"He puts up with me because I'm not a complacent, egotistical, jackass."

"Uh, but you _are_. Maybe not egotistical or complacent, but a jackass," Jace shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Only to you." And with that, I shove past him, purposely stepping on his foot with my deathly sharp heel.

* * *

Not even the cold biting at my skin can chase away my warm, strangely satisfied mood.

But the Bentley driving down the road can. Oh, yes, it _definitely_ can.

* * *

 **Hey guys, I apologize for the lack of updates in Fading, but my beta is busy as am I - so as I stated at the beginning of this chapter, this chapter is un-beta-ed.**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: You're too sweet! And, yes, this story will absolutely have many plot twists.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: You got me, I couldn't _not_ continue this story. There was so much I wanted to do with it, and it got an amazing reactions. **

**Mrs. Hemmings96: Thank you!**

 **chesire15: Thank you, I hope you found this chapter as interesting (or, perhaps more so?).**

 **Galindanot: Thank you :) I was hoping to kind of play around with a different theme for this story, whereas all my other stories have been strictly mundane with rock stars (because what's funner - yes, I'm making it a word - than writing about a famous Jace?).**

 **Jace5000: I hope it is :) P.S. I love your profile picture.**

 **Jia Ming: All right, here we go: They are NOT Shadowhunters, nor are they completely mundane. I can't tell you exactly what they are, because, well, that will ruin some of the plot twists I have planned, and take away that *gasp* effect. And I promise that, yes, I will be updating other stories soon. :)**

 **Sorriussuck: I'm trying to update Fading as fast as I can. ;)**

 **Lava: I feel really bad reading all these reviews asking me to update Fading. lol. But I'm trying - I swear it on my non-existent soul. I promise I'm not _trying_ to torture you...ish. **

**Hi: So sweet! I've been trying to update My Ghost, as for Fame and I Hate You, well, I've been writing - slowly, but surely - it's just hard to get back into those stories now. I hope you like the ones I am updating, though. :)**

 **Guest: I'm going to try and update Fading, I SWEAR IT.**

 **Guest: Honestly, when I started writing on here, I didn't think I'd get any reviews or traffic to my stories...but here we are. So thank you very much for helping me get here.**

 **TheFallenAngel18: (Love your user!) I'm glad you ~*love*~ it, and think everything is so ~*perfect*~**

* * *

 **HEY! ONE MORE THING: IF YOU'RE REVIEWING AS A GUEST, PLEASE USE SOMETHING OTHER THAN "GUEST" SO IT'S EASIER FOR ME TO REPLY TO YOUR REVIEWS. ALL RIGHT? OKAY? THANK YOU. :)**


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